


How to Ruin Everything

by glennjaminhow



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Borderline Personality Disorder, Canon Gay Character, Codependency, Depression, Dysfunctional Relationships, Episode: s13e10 Mac Finds His Pride, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-21 19:13:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17048999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glennjaminhow/pseuds/glennjaminhow
Summary: Dennis is angry because Mac always ruins everything. Post "Mac Finds His Pride."





	1. Part I

He watches the video dozens of times.

Each viewing leaves somehow more hollow and numb, yet so viciously vulnerable. He watches Mac’s muscles glimmer in the faint light light, flickering off his bedroom walls in a hazy melancholy daze. He watches Mac soar and spin, expression beautifully haunted, and he remembers the way Mac’s chocolate brown eyes look when they used to - Never mind. He watches Mac break down at the end, hears his dance partner say, “It’s okay,” listens as prisoners clap and cheer, sees Mac’s face fall once he realizes his dad left before it was over.

Dennis rewinds the it back to the beginning, where Mac introduces himself as Ronald McDonald, and pauses the tape. He stares blankly at the fuzzy screen from where he’s sitting on the floor, knees to his chest and heart swimming somewhere safely in his shrunken stomach. Mac’s biceps strain in his shirt. His hair is fluffy and messy, and, fuck, he looks really good. Mac has this air of confidence Dennis thought he long ago stripped away in the wake of manic episodes coated with rage, hate, cruelty. He thought he got rid of the Mac who was proud.

He failed. Miserably.

But there is a lot to be proud of, and Dennis knows it. Mac came out almost two years ago, after forty years of repression and crushing Catholic guilt. Mac came out, even though he, deep down, knew his parents didn’t give a single percent of a shit about him. Mac came out despite the fact that he’d tried so hard for so long to deny such a large portion of his identity. Dennis often wonders why. Why that day? Why after all these years?

Why?

Dennis hides his face in his knees. His head hurts. He doesn’t like this. Feeling things, anything, sets him off, and it’s harder to reign it in once he starts. He’s fucking revving like an engine ready to peel out, and there’s nothing and no one, and he can’t stop trembling, and Mac is out and happy, and Dennis told Mac not to touch him anymore, but he doesn’t mean it because how can he mean it? It isn’t fair. He should’ve been there to stop this. He’s so fucking disgusted with himself, who he’s become. Tears swell up in his eyes. He curls in even more.

He left that day - the day of the dance - in a rush. Stupid fucking pride float that Mac was supposed to top. He was going to dance then, too. Dennis bailed before Mac did, even though all he had to do was drive the damn thing. He couldn’t even do that. Now, weeks later and twenty-something years of Mac to the right, an inch above their apartment of stones, lies Dennis on his bedroom floor, jumping out of his skin as the rest of Philly stays in motion. He’s stagnant. He’s flat. He is nothing and no one. He knows he'll never change.

Dennis flinches when the front door unlocks. Plugs his ears as it creaks on its hinges. Counts as Mac steps out of his boots and pads around. Hears the fridge open. A beer can pop. The couch squeak. The TV click on. Mac doesn’t come to check in. Hasn’t been asking Dennis to, even though Dennis instinctively composes texts like Mozart on a grand piano and almost presses send, only to delete them when he realizes Mac doesn’t care where he is or what he’s doing. Years upon years of self-mutilation and self-destruction should tell him otherwise.

A few tears spill over his cheeks. He doesn’t bother wiping them away. Instead, against his better judgement and every fiber of his holy being protesting violently, he tiptoes to the door. Presses his ear against the stained wood. Listens to Bob’s Burgers play softly. He bites his bottom lip so hard it nearly bleeds. He opens up to the door to his tomb - room, he means his room - and exits carefully. He stands in the doorway, arms rigidly at his sides, hands tucked away in the pockets of his worn flannel pajamas. He’s shaking so hard, but he stays still as a statue.

Mac motions for him to come here, to sit down, on the couch beside him. Dennis ducks his head and creeps over like a ghost in the night. He thinks about the video. Of Mac laying everything out there for the world to see. To accept himself for who he is. It makes Dennis sick to his stomach. He hates this. He wants to be bad, to be pissed and engulfed in familiar rage at Mac for ruining everything, but all he feels is warmth radiating from the body next to him.

They don’t touch, obviously. Dennis wants them to, but it can’t and will never happen again. Mac apologizes if he accidentally brushes his fingers over Dennis’ skin when he reaches to grab his beer in the center console of the new Rover. Mac leaves at least a single open bar stool between them when they’re sitting. Mac takes steps away even if Dennis doesn’t think he’s too close. Mac is ruining everything. The video is ruining everything. Fuck Mac. Fuck the video.

“Wanna watch something else?” Mac asks, voice completely neutral. Dennis winces.

“No,” he replies.

Mac shrugs and returns his unwavering attention to the stupid fucking TV as if Dennis isn’t even here.

He crosses his arms over his chest. The tears are dry on his flushed cheeks. He almost hiccups. He can’t help it. Beyond control. Beyond repair. Beyond saving. He is nothing and no one. He fucking just… He just wants Mac back. But Mac is gone, but Dennis is even further gone than that. He doesn’t exist in this realm, on this plane of reality anymore. Dennis pinches his sides harshly and sniffles into the open, snowy December night.

Dennis lies down and tucks himself into a ball, willing the silent tears not to turn into sobs.

“You okay?” Mac questions. “Need anything?”

He shakes his head. Mac’s eyes as his dance partner says, “It’s okay,” bore into his skull.

Mac gets up. Dennis’ tears turn into quick, shattering sobs that very instant.

He’s a fucking idiot.

But Mac’s back quickly and thrusts a straw into his mouth. Dennis drinks tentatively, letting the cool water drape over his throat like a warm blanket. He doesn’t open his eyes. Doesn’t need or want to see that look on Mac’s face, like he’s disappointed and worried and scared and pissed all at once. He’s fucking pathetic. He can’t take care of himself. Mac’s the only person who can. The only person who knows how. The only person who wants to. Even after all of this. Even after Dennis being such a fucking asshole all the fucking time. It isn’t fair. Mac ruins everything.

“I’m gonna cover you up now, dude,” he says, and he does. Dennis is nearly thankful for the heads up.

Mac settles down on the sofa like he never even left. Dennis rolls and stares up at the ceiling with half-lidded eyes, heart empty and stomach hollow.

He drifts off to the sound of Mac’s soft chuckles, wrapping himself up tightly in them, wanting to never let go again.

 

* * *

 

Dennis wakes up to the sounds of pots and pans clanging together.

He’s still on the couch. Still wrapped in a soft blanket that smells like Mac. Still here somehow breathing. His vision blurry as shit, he turns his head and watches Mac messily crack - no, slam - eggs against the kitchen counter, pour the egg into the skillet, scrape up the shells and sprinkle them in like raindrops falling on asphalt. There’s a reason why Mac doesn’t cook, and this is it. Dennis has half a mind to stop this monstrosity, this catastrophe of culinary arts, but Mac’s sweatpants hang low on his hips, and Dennis can’t exactly look away from that now, can he?

Dennis almost goes to his room. Almost taps Mac on the shoulder. Almost gives Mac a good morning kiss. Almost does a lot of things.

He resorts to scowling and pinching his arms as hard as he can. It fucking stings, but it’s so worth it, especially when he feels blood from a previous battle with his pocket knife ooze into the gauze. It isn’t enough to turn off the vile hate building in his gut. Everything is loud. His brain is screaming, on fire. He wants to gut himself with a machete. Throw himself from the roof of this very apartment building. Slice his arms until he can see his arteries.

Fucking fuck.

“Want some breakfast?” Mac asks.

Dennis flinches so fucking hard he nearly slithers out of his skin.

He clenches his jaw and shakes his head.

Moments later, Mac puts down a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of him.

“I’m not gonna eat your shitty, shell-ridden eggs. They belong in the trash, not in the stomach of another human being,” he says. His voice doesn’t sound like it belongs to him.

“Hey, I worked hard on those,” Mac points out, plopping unceremoniously on the sofa. The vibration murders Dennis’ core. “You should be thankful.”

Dennis scoffs. “Nothing to be thankful for.”

“Why don’t you go to your room if you’re gonna be an asshole?”

“Why don’t you shut the fuck up and stop treating me like a five year old?” Dennis asks.

Mac drops his fork. It clatters on the plate. Dennis could shove that fork down his throat. “Then stop acting like one! Dude, I don’t know what the fuck’s wrong with you, but you’re more crazier now than you’ve ever been, and it’s freaking me out.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Dennis says calmly, evenly. “I’m fine.”

Mac rolls his eyes. “Whatever, bro.”

He goes back to eating his breakfast. This - whatever it is - ignites flames in Dennis’ gut hot enough to turn his ears red.

“Fuck you, Mac,” he spits.

“Dude, what -”

“Shut up!” Dennis shouts. “Just shut the fuck up, okay? I don’t need you, okay? I don’t need you, and I don’t need this… this constant spectacle you’re always putting on. I’m not a toy. I’m not here to make poor little Mac feel better. I’ve never needed any of this, but you just kept pushing and shoving and prying your way into my life.”

He’s standing, pacing on aching feet and trembling legs. He doesn’t feel human.

“You’re fucking pathetic. You sit there acting like you’re better than everyone, better than me, because you’re gay. You’re gay; so fucking what? It was never a big deal. You just turned it into one. That tape of you prancing around just proves my point. Your dad couldn’t even stick around to watch the grand-fucking-finale because he doesn’t give a shit about you, okay, Mac? Your parents do not care about you. They don’t care that you’ve had this ‘realization’ and are trying to ‘transform’ into a different person. You are who you’ve always been. You’re a delusional, pitiful, pathetic waste of space. This is why we don’t like you. This is why we say ‘Mac’s the most annoying person in the galaxy’ because it’s fucking true! But you don’t see that, do you? No. No no no. You only see what you wanna see, and that has been made abundantly clear over the years. You’re ruining everything. Why are you always ruining everything?”

You ruined my life you ruined my life you ruined my life you ruined my life.

Dennis grabs the glass Mac filled with water for him last night. Stares at it. Throws it against the wall. Watches it shatter into billions of unrecognizable pieces.

Wants to slit his wrists with a shard. Wants to slash his own jugular. Wants to spill onto the floor like how snow sticks to pavement in the winter.

He can’t do this. He can’t do it. He isn’t real. This isn’t real.

Dennis flips the coffee table over. Doesn’t register the look on Mac’s face because FUCK THAT LOOK ON MAC’S FACE. And fuck everything and everyone else no one deserves him no one needs him he doesn’t belong here he just wants to die he wants to die he wants to die but SOMEONE will always be fucking here to make sure he doesn’t do it to make sure he doesn’t pick up that shard of glass take it one step too far end up charred ashes on the ground.

Bleeding. He’s bleeding. There’s a piece of glass clutched in between his index finger and thumb, digging into warm, soft flesh.

Mac is in his face in an instant. He’s snatching the glass from his hand. He’s snapping his fingers in front of Dennis’ eyes. He’s dancing around like a fucking savage little idiot trying to glue Dennis back together.

He doesn’t want to be glued together. Held by nothing. Unloved by the air and space and time and the sun.

“Dennis!” he hears. He stares. Stares over Mac’s shoulder at the window. Feels empty. “Dennis, snap the fuck out of it!”

He laughs. He laughs really fucking hard. Because this is funny. It’s fucking hilarious. It’s the comic relief he’s always needed and wanted.

Mac’s fist collides with Dennis’ mouth as Mac keeps screaming. Shouting. Yelling at the top of his lungs. It’s the most noise he’s ever heard. But Dennis keeps laughing and laughing and laughing. It’s all he can do. There’s another blow and then another then another then another. He spits blood on the hardwood floor and smiles at the ceiling. He’s invincible. He’s a god.

“You’re scaring me,” Mac says. Dennis doesn’t have to look - have to see - to know he’s crying.

“Good. I should scare you. I’m capable of anything, Mac.”

He is capable. He is anything. He is everything.

Dennis laughs. Mac hits him again.

He’s broken.

 

* * *

 

He’s smart enough to know that North Dakota will never work. That he’s even more lost with Mandy and Brian than in Philly. It’s not that much makes sense to him most of the time. There’s an intense, dense suffocation dampening his brain, muscles and neurons muted by medication. So he stops. Stops taking four different prescriptions at the same time. He has upswings so bright and vivid that the blackened euphoria stays nestled in his bones for days after. He watches movies with Mandy and Brian. He bakes cupcakes and grins when Brian dumps the whole bottle of artificial vanilla flavoring into the batter. He builds a snowman with his son and sips on hot chocolate with marshmallows that he doesn’t throw up later. He nods off with Brian on his chest, the toddler sucking his thumb and mouth parted against his skin.

It doesn’t work. Of course it doesn’t work. Nothing ever works.

The illusion he wrapped tightly around him - that things are okay - disintegrates rapidly. He crashes hard and fast and all at once. He wants the earth to smash into the moon. He wants to hurdle himself at the blazingly brilliant sun. He wants to jump off the balcony of his shitty apartment building. He wants to gut his arms like a pumpkin, picking and plucking and poking his veins until there’s nothing left but a hollow shell.

He and Mandy fight. He’s notoriously late to watch Brian, which means Mandy’s late for work. He doesn’t fucking care. Can’t bring himself to care anymore. He screams at her until he’s out of breath and nauseous. He wants to slit her throat, pummel her face into a bloody pulp, watch the life drain from her body like a sponge drying in sunlight. Mandy doesn’t lose her cool.

While he was in North Dakota, before this whole ‘let’s come out to an asshole father via interpretive dance’ fiasco, Dennis longed for Mac, who understood his fits of rage and numbness jags and suicidal tendencies. Mac can piece him back together like broken shards of glass and help mend him, mold him, glue him, into someone new, even if only for a day.

He remembers how the days hurt so bad that they would crawl into his chest and never ever let go. He remembers how his arms itched, and his skin shook, and he just wants to go home. Home. Where Philly’s unmistakable stench fills up his nostrils and that gap in his chest like Mac’s smile. He remembers wanting to tear off his skin and bury it underground until springtime. He remembers the pain ripping at limbs and crying so hard he can’t breathe. He remembers how black the sky was and how far away the stars were and how inconceivably small he felt. He remembers unshed tears and stale memories like a ship in a bottle echoing through his ears.

Now, here in Philly, he remembers Mac’s fingers brushing over his cheek. Remembers Mac’s cinnamony breath against his neck. Remembers every inch of Mac’s body against his own. Remembers that they just fit so perfectly together. Remembers how Mac used to whisper, “I love you,” every night before they drifted off to sleep. Remembers how he can never have that again. Knows he’s lost and beyond saving and needs this to fucking end because he can’t take it anymore. He can’t do this. Can’t can’t can’t can’t can’t can’t can’t can’t can’t. Won’t.

Dennis’ face is cold and bruised and bloody from Mac’s blows.

Mac’s touch is the only thing he wants to feel as he slices up his left arm with his trusty pocket knife.

It isn’t enough.

He slashes up his right wrist too just for fun.

Watches the blood gush and drain and pour from each pore in his poor body.

Smiles.

For once in his forty years, he knows he’s doing the right thing.

Mac doesn’t ruin everything.

Dennis ruins everything.

Remembers Mac running his fingers through his hair, peppering kisses on soft skin and whispering sweet nothings in his ear.


	2. Part II

He doesn’t expect to wake up.

Doesn’t want to, either.

In a land filled with misery lies Real Dennis Reynolds in his roommate’s arms. From his perch high above this mess, somewhere achingly far away yet still too close, Fake Dennis watches Mac apply pressure to the wounds to stop the bleeding with their fluffy bath towels Mac bought at Bed Bath & Beyond. It doesn’t work, and Fake Dennis smiles as Real Dennis’ eyes roll back into his head. Real Dennis goes limp and keeps oozing blood. Mac calls 911, Real Dennis’ blood smeared on the shattered screen of his shitty smartphone.

Fake Dennis feels Real Dennis’ heartbeat slug along at an eerily, beautifully slow pace. Fake Dennis feels Real Dennis’ pulse beat minutely in his chest. Fake Dennis feels Real Dennis’ God Hole open up for the first time since the last time they tried this. They did this in North Dakota about a year ago, but with pills - they didn’t know what they were; they just swallowed mindlessly, two weeks after stopping medication cold turkey. Neither of them wanted to leave a mess for Mandy or Brian to find.

But Real Dennis doesn’t care about anyone finding him because he’s given up, and Fake Dennis doesn’t give a shit because no one cares anyway. He’d much rather float up here in space, riding on a turtle’s back in a dream that isn’t his own.

Fake Dennis notes that Real Dennis’ eyes are starting to flutter again, and there’s this thing that happens. They’re divided. Not them, but he. Just Dennis. And when Just Dennis - Real and/or Fake - cracks open broken orbs, he can sort of kind of see Mac jumping and jittering about, screaming into his phone with a petrified worry splattered across his face. Just Dennis wishes he could finish the job, but he’s fucking freezing, and nothing makes sense, and Mac is here. Mac is always fucking here.

Mac is here he found him like this he finds him like this a lot disoriented and bloody and sad he doesn’t know why Mac doesn’t just leave him alone he wants Dennis to die because Dennis wants Dennis to die how could someone be so stupid and let him live he doesn’t deserve life or happiness or even content bliss he doesn’t deserve to have Mac around pulling his weight making him eat when he doesn’t want to forcing him to interact with the outside world when he’d much rather be in a tomb swallowed by nothingness.

He doesn’t want to wake up he doesn’t want to be here he wants to die doesn’t understand why this keeps happening why he keeps fucking screwing up he can’t even fucking kill himself right. Once when he was eleven he tried to hang himself with his belt in his closet because everything was too loud he wanted it to stop but the fucking belt snapped before the job was done he lost nearly twenty pounds after that haunted by the belt snapping tries to rationalize that he’d had that belt for years and wore it daily but it didn’t matter he lost weight and tried again.

And again and again and again and again.

Just Dennis lunges over. Tries to grab his pocket knife that’s lying in the bathtub. Doesn’t know how the fuck he has the strength.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Dennis?” Mac screams, and Just Dennis almost cries. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

He doesn’t see where the pocket knife goes next. Just feels Mac’s rage and concern and really hates it.

Just Dennis lets his eyes flutter closed in utter defeat. An ambulance arrives. Paramedics, two or three or four or 29 or 41 of them, storm into the apartment. Whirlwind. Chaos. Just Dennis hides deep in his pocket of oblivion, where it’s moderately warm and free from the excessive noise. He doesn’t warrant this. This isn’t a big deal. He failed. He thought he cut deep enough, but he didn’t, and now he has to wait to try again. Wait until he isn’t under such scrutiny. Fuck them. Fuck Mac. Fuck everyone who will hold him down. Fuck everyone who will keep him from getting what he wants. He’s traveled on this road so many times. Psych ward. Therapy. New meds. Cognitive and behavioral exercise. Learn to love himself.

Blah blah blah it’s all bullshit anyway.

“Hang in there, Dennis,” Mac says.

Dennis’ hand is still wrapped in Mac’s.

He almost tears it away, but what the fuck? Who cares?

Dennis doesn’t.

 

* * *

 

He’s here overnight for a physical evaluation getting admitted upstairs 72 hour psychiatric hold suicide watch nurses check on him every 10 minutes pester him asking him if he needs anything but he can’t tell them he just wants to die because then he’ll never get out of here he wants to get out of here so he can try again do it better maybe apologize to Mac for freaking him out he doesn’t know yet is alarmed by the fact that he - Dennis Reynolds - doesn’t know doesn’t have a game plan is going along with the bullshit because he’s been through it too many times to count.

“Jesus Christ, how many times have I done this for you, kid?” Frank sighs, plopping down in a red plastic chair beside Dennis’ bed. For fucking once, he isn’t eating or spitting or screaming nonsense. He isn’t knocking him around like he used to when Dennis was little. He isn’t laying chum all over the place.“Checking you into the loony bin? Paying for hospital stays without orgies and quacks that drill holes into your brain and all of that other bullshit? Bringing you your shit because you can’t get it for yourself?”

Dennis shrugs idly. Stares at the clock on the wall. 10:43 PM.

“You gotta stop doing this, son,” Frank says. He sounds serious and… vaguely emotional.

He doesn’t say anything. There’s no reason to.

Instead, mind fogged by drugs and body aching, he rolls on to his side away from Frank, curling in on himself. The bandages covering his forearms sting, itch, irritate him. He’s 41 years old. He’s too fucking old for all of this shit. Maybe 30 years ago, when he was 11 and tried with that fucking awful belt, it was different. Adolescence and hormones and that kind of stuff. But 16 and 17 make sense too. 20 and 22 still make sense because of the transition between college and ‘real life.’ But how can he explain the numerous times in between 22 and 41?

Fuck.

He can’t do this anymore.

“Alright,” Frank whispers. “Take it easy, Dennis. Rest up, and get better.”

He listens as Frank leaves the room and feels nothing.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, Dennis,” Mac announces as he knocks softly on the door. He has bloodstains on his navy pants and hoodie and streaked across his forehead.

Almost feels bad almost feels bad about Mac finding him again like this seeing him again like this but feels so agonizingly numb it’s making him crazy.

“Can I sit down?”

Moments pass. “Whatever,” Dennis murmurs. He’s so tired.

Mac rubs the back of his neck. It’s a stupid fucking nervous tick. Dennis wants to rip his hands off and watch the blood gush.

He can’t. Why is Mac even here? Did he not hear all the awful shit Dennis said to him? Does he not care? He should care. He should definitely fucking care. When Dennis speaks, Mac listens; that’s just the way it is. But Mac’s denial of the situation - Dennis’ situation - speaks volumes, and he’s about three seconds away from punting him through the Goddamn wall because Mac can’t seriously be this naive, right? Does he not get it? How can he not get it?

“They treating you okay?” he asks, too softly and too kindly; it grates Dennis’ ears.

What the fuck?

What the actual fuck?

This is absurd. This is pathetic. This is a slap in the fucking face. Mac is trash. Mac is garbage. And Dennis has no idea why he feels this urge - this overwhelming urge - to cry, to reach out for Mac’s hand, to explain why he did it, to say he’s sorry for doing it, to beg for forgiveness, to swear he’ll never try again, to apologize for scaring him, for trying to end it because it’s too much. He can’t do it. He has to right. He has to fight to make it out of here alive so he can try again with a more foolproof, less impulsive, in the spur of the moment tactic.

“Fine,” he mumbles.

Dennis shivers. He’s pissed. Irritated. Confused. Anxious. His heart bleeds into his stomach. His intestines spill onto the floor. His arteries are shreds of confetti lost in an unending parade. He wants to throw up. Scream. Drown. Cut himself. Wants to do these things but can’t. Isn’t allowed. Doesn’t have enough self-control to restrain himself from ‘bad ideas.’ Except there aren’t any ‘bad ideas.’ All he ever has are good ideas. He is a genius, after all.

BUT WHY THE FUCK DOES MAC KEEP LOOKING AT HIM LIKE THAT?

He hates it.

He can’t.

He can’t he can’t he can’t -

It has to fucking stop.

“Mac,” he chokes out. He wants to yell, but he can’t. Can’t can’t can’t. “Leave.”

“What? Why?”

“Just… Just go.”

“Dennis, I don’t understand. I just got here. What’s - ”

“No! Shut up!” He manages to raise his voice slightly, but his inflection is strained and quiet instead of angry and fearless. “Go away.”

“Dude, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Why not?” he asks pathetically. He hates everything. Knows he’s being whiny and dramatic.

_Why are you doing this?_

_Why are you torturing me?_

_Why are you ruining everything?_

“Because you’re a giant asshole cunt prick doucheface, but you’re my friend, Dennis. We’ve known each other for, like, ever. I won’t abandon you now.”

Dennis scoffs. “You already did.”

It slips out like gravy on to a warm country biscuit. He kicks himself internally. Wants to pull his IV from his veins and make a break for it.

“What do you mean?”

And Mac’s got those stupid fucking puppy eyes, and Dennis wants to fucking kill him, kill himself, kill everyone because none of this makes sense, and his feelings don’t make sense, and he doesn’t even really have feelings because he’s a psychopath, and everyone already knows that, and he doesn’t know why he can’t fucking figure it out, why he can’t do it right, why he’s here on this earth, why he was even born in the first place. Maybe things would’ve been better for Dee if it weren’t for Dennis being brought into the world eight minutes later. Maybe things would’ve been better for Frank and Mom if they only had one bastard kid to take care of, not two, let alone twins. Maybe things would’ve been better for Mac if Dennis had never been there to need weed to calm his panic attacks and constant nausea. Maybe things would’ve been better for Mac if Dennis weren’t there to ask Mac to move in with him, uproot his already shitty life to make it even worse. Living with a psychopath can’t be fun.

Fuck. This is so fucking fucked up.

“Hey,” he hears. “It’s alright, bro. You don’t have to talk about it right now. Just focus on getting more better.”

“I don’t wanna get better, Mac,” he says quietly, fiddling with his hospital bracelet, doing whatever he can to not look at Mac.

Mac sighs. “I know you don’t. But you have to try.”

“Why? What’s the point? What makes you think I won’t do it again the second I get out of here?”

“I have faith you won’t,” Mac says simply, like it means nothing and everything all at once.

Dennis chuckles heatedly. “Bullshit.”

“I’ve been in the emergency room with you dozens of times, Dennis,” Mac tells him. “Sometimes it’s for things like alcohol poisoning or a broken arm or that sun thingy that makes you see spots til you pass out. Other times, it’s like you don’t wanna eat, you don’t wanna sleep, you don’t wanna do anything anymore. But you always walk outta here. You’re still here, man.”

Dennis frowns. “I think you’re missing the bigger picture here. I tried to kill myself. Again.”

“Oh, I know what you did. Seen it a thousand times, dude.”

And he doesn’t know what happens or why, but a switch ignites inside him. He feels scared. He feels crazy. He feels fucking out of his mind.

“Get me out of here,” he says carefully.

Mac shakes his head. “No can do. Suicide watch, bro. Because you tried to, you know…” He mimics a knife slicing through his neck with his index finger.

“I wanted it to work,” Dennis reasons.

“Just do what the doctors say. It isn’t that hard.”

Isn’t that hard? Isn’t that hard?

If Mac spent one fucking minute in his head, he’d want to off himself too.

“You aren’t thinking clearly.”

“On the contrary, Mac, I’m thinking more clearly now than ever before.”

Mac rolls his eyes.

Dennis bites the inside of his cheek so hard it bleeds.

He can’t do this. He can’t talk to Mac anymore. He can’t fucking do it.

“You’re sick, and you need help,” Mac says.

Dennis curls into a ball on his side, rolling away from his roommate. Former roommate? He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know how or why Mac’s still here. Why he wants to put up with him. Why he wants this to be his life.

“You’re gonna be okay, Dennis,” Mac whispers. “I’ll do whatever I can to help you through this.”

He hears Mac’s heavy footsteps tread toward the door.

Dennis lets out a dangerously shaky breath he doesn’t remember inhaling.

 

* * *

 

The stitches in his forearms sting brightly. He’s massively uncomfortably, what with the scratchy, thin blanket, the snowy draft echoing into his room, the paper gown. There’s nothing to fucking do except stare at the Goddamn wall like some uneducated savage. He needs action. He needs talking, or, fuck him, even screaming. He needs to be in control, in charge, of something before he stabs the next person he sees in the eye with a spoon.

He’s just about had enough of this bullshit. He squirms and wants to dig at the stitches carved into his imperfect skin and let himself bleed out. It’ll be quicker this time, given the drugs he’s on and that one of them has to be a blood thinner of some short. He smiles at the idea.

Dennis can still die like he intended.

Yes, he wasn’t exactly thinking all that clearly at the time, but he’s rational. He’s calculated. Methodical. Organized. He may keep ruining his otherwise perfect appearance by self-destructing, but he obviously meant it. It was supposed to work. He was supposed to die in that bathroom with his wrists slit open, no note or anything left behind because fuck that pansy ass shit; it sounds vaguely like something Mac or Dee would do.

He hates Mac.

Mac ruins everything.

If he had given him two or three more fucking minutes, he’d be dead. But no. Asshole superhero Mac just had to swoop in and save the day. Mac always tries so hard to make Dennis who he wants Dennis to be. It’s never about him. It’s about Mac’s stupid ego and righteousness and the fact that he has to watch over Dennis like a fucking hawk, and Dennis can’t fucking stand it.

He’s been weighing his options for the better part of an hour now. He woke up with blurry vision and a coppery mouth, stomach begging for a drink and head swimming from the copious amount of drugs flowing through his bloodstream. Every idea, from jumping out the window to filling his IV with air bubbles to stabbing his jugular with a scalpel, goes straight down the shitter because of the guard outside his room and the nurses circulating in to check on him every ten minutes because Dennis Reynolds is idiotic enough to get placed on suicide watch again.

Fucking Mac.

See, people think he’s crazy because he tried to kill himself, but Dennis is aware. Dennis knows what he’s doing, even if it can be rather impulsive, but he trusts his thought process. He wants to get out of here. He wants to go to a park in the new Rover, take a shit ton of pills, wash them down with whiskey, and wait until his organs bubble and boil. He wants to make it less messy. He wants it to be quick and simple, but it’s too late.

He feels fucking trapped. He can’t talk or manipulate his way out of here. Not with all the shit in his medical records.

Sweat drips down the sides of his face. His head spins, and his brain leaves his body. He floats and watches himself struggle from space, begging for someone or something to help him. Fake Dennis screws his eyes shut and tosses and turns in the hospital bed; Real Dennis observes from above because it’s all he can really do.

Real Dennis notes a doctor shoving more drugs directly into his IV port.

Both Real and Fake Dennis want - need - this to be over.

But, of course, neither of them get their wish.

 

* * *

 

Long before he left to go be a dad, in the year 2009, Sundays belonged to Dennis and Mac.

They both have the day off because the bar is closed. Mac sleeps in while Dennis dusts the apartment and cooks pancakes he won’t even touch anyway. Mac emerges hours later, typically right before noon, hair a fucking mess and shoulders glistening in the sunlight. He eats the cold pancakes while Dennis reads the newspaper with his feet on the coffee table.

Mac always forces him to eat an apple or yogurt or a few bites of sugar free cereal.

After a belated breakfast, Mac tugs Dennis into the shower with him. They make out and go down on each other, and Dennis runs his fingers through Mac’s sudsy hair. Mac kisses and holds him, and, sure, it feels nice. It’s different to acknowledge that he wants to be wanted, especially and specifically by Mac, but he thinks he’s coming around to it.

The rest of their Sundays are dedicated to catching up on their recorded TV shows and watching movies. Mac likes to wrap himself around Dennis, and Dennis likes the warmth seeping into his cold bones. Dennis always dozes off, and Mac always pinches and kisses him awake, dragging him to bed even though it’s always barely ten o’clock.

Dennis used to love Sundays. They were one of the only things in life that brought him something akin to happiness.

But, today, on this awful fucking Sunday, he’s staring at some bitch that’s eyeing him up and down like he murdered a dolphin or some shit.

“How are you feeling today, Mr. Reynolds?” she asks.

She has a big nose and an even bigger forehead, as well as the word ‘bitch’ practically tattooed across her chubby, pimply cheeks.

Dennis doesn’t move. Doesn’t answer.

“Do you want to tell me why you tried to commit suicide?”

He furrows his eyebrows.

Why the fuck does anyone ever ‘try to commit suicide?’

But, even though this conversation is making Dennis hot, he doesn’t feel like talking. His face reddens, and he shivers in the bed.

“Do you want another blanket?” she questions.

Oh, for fuck’s sake, will this bitch ever leave? Can’t she understand that he doesn’t give a shit? He wants to go home. He wants Mac to hug him and be with him in his final moments because there’s no way in shit he can just go back out into the real world again. Nope. No fucking way. He’s been trying that for 41 years, and guess what? It never works.

“Mac,” he rasps. “I want you to call Mac.”

It’s the first thing he’s said since he and Mac talked last night.

The absolutely horrid lady glares at him. “Is Mac your boyfriend?”

The nerve of this… this pig thing sitting in front of him. Does she not know who she’s talking to? That he’s Dennis Reynolds?

“What makes you assume I’m gay?”

“Are you?”

“I’m nothing and no one,” he says.

“What do you mean?”

Dennis closes his eyes and tells her nothing more.

 

* * *

 

Some savage little idiot doctor calls him ‘grossly underweight’ and threatens to give him a feeding tube if he doesn’t start eating.

Fuck him. Fuck this place. Fuck the feeding tube. Fuck hospital food. Fuck eating and sleeping and breathing. Fuck Mac for doing this to him.

He’s in control. He’s so in control it’s incomprehensible.

“You have to eat something, sweetie,” a nurse tells him. “Dr. Roman is very serious about that feeding tube, and, trust me, you don’t want to go there.”

There’s a rubbery slab of turkey - is it turkey? - on a obnoxiously red tray, along with soggy vegetables and a suspicious Jell-O cup.

No apples. No yogurt. No cereal.

No Mac.

The nurse sighs when Dennis continues staring at the wall blankly. “You need to eat.”

“Will you let me go if I do?”

“That’s not my decision to make,” she states.

“Then get the fuck out of my room.”

 

* * *

 

“You look like shit.”

Dennis’ eyes pop open, and he licks his dry lips. Through hazy vision, he makes out the silhouette of his bird of a sister. Dee takes a seat in the chair beside his bed and crosses her legs.

“Do you have any chapstick?” he croaks out.

Dee pulls out a tube of mango chapstick without giving him shit. He goes to take it from her, but she does it for him instead. He rolls his eyes. But it’s kind of okay because his arms are sore and heavy, and he is feeling a little weak.

“Have you eaten?” Dee asks.

Dennis immediately shakes his head. “No. Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

He swallows thickly. “Don’t treat me differently, Dee.”

Dee’s cheeks go from an ugly, uneven tan to bright red. “You tried to kill yourself, asshole! Again!”

“Why do you care?”

“Are you shitting me?”

Dennis shrugs and then shakes his head.

“I care because you’re my brother. You’re an idiot and a fucking moron, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you.”

He glances her over and tries to ignore the tears shining in her eyes. “This is weird.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Dee says.

For a split second, remorse blankets him, and Dennis almost feels… guilty. Guilty for continuously putting his sister through this. Guilty for the times he’s ruined her dance recitals or and plays and soccer games because he was in the hospital after a botched suicide attempt. Dennis isn’t sure how he would feel if Dee tried to off herself, but he’s super fucking fucked up in the emotions department, and Dee knows that. But, if he were a normal person with normal feelings, he thinks he’d be pretty upset.

“I wanna get outta here,” he tells Dee.

“Yeah, well maybe that can happen when you eat and stop giving everyone shit for trying to help you.”

Dennis scoffs. “I don’t need help. I’m in control. This doesn’t mean shit.”

But Dee stares at him like he’s a ghost, like he’s already dead. “Look at your wrists, cocksucker!” she screeches shrilly. “That is not what someone who is in control does! You’re sick, Dennis, and you really need to get help.”

He’s not sick.

He’s not fucking sick.

“I’ve been reading up on BPD,” Dennis tells him, but it falls on deaf ears.

She’s probably reciting facts from Google or Wikipedia like it’s supposed to make him feel better.

Dennis doesn’t bother listening. He’s heard it all before.

 

* * *

 

Not long after Dee goes home, Dennis leaves his body.

He isn’t real anyway.

None of this is real.

So he floats around in space and tries to get away from himself for a while. Only, no one tells you that space is terrifying. Space is vast and never ending, and Dennis can’t breathe. He can’t fucking breathe because everything ends and begins and lives and dies all at once. He feels Mac’s lips brush against his. He feels the sun and stars burning through his skin, lighting him up and setting him on fire. Space has nothing.

Dennis is nothing.

Fake Dennis is such an idiot and a fucking moron, just like Dee said.

Fake Dennis can’t breathe, but Real Dennis smiles as he stares down at his body.

The smile fades quickly, though, once Real Dennis notices who is at his bedside.

Mac.

Real Dennis shoots down into Fake Dennis’ body quickly.

“Hey,” Mac whispers. “You okay?”

Dennis squints and coughs. Feels like puking. “Huh?”

“I’m gonna go get your doctor, okay?”

But the notion, the idea of Mac leaving right now is too much. It’s… This… It’s all profoundly dumb. It’s so fucking dumb, and he hurts everywhere. “No. Don’t go.”

“I’ll be right back. I swear.”

Mac leaves, and so does Dennis.

He doesn’t like it here anyway.

 

* * *

 

He fidgets, popping his knuckles over and over again. The movement singes his broken skin, but the sensation is blissful. It means he’s feeling something, which means whatever the fuck his doctor keeps sticking in the IV port when he panics is wearing off again. Good. He doesn’t need it anyway. But, no matter how much he says he’s fine and in total control of his body, no one listens to him, especially Mac.

Mac’s sitting in that ugly chair by his bed. He’s flipping through some shitty motorcycle magazine. Dennis takes in the jeans - a nice change from those fucking awful navy work pants - and Eagles sweater. Sees the way his new biceps fill in the sweater completely. He gulps and goes back to idly watching TV, waiting for his slow ass doctor to remove the fucking tube from his penis because, apparently, he decided that Dennis is, indeed, not invalid.

“We need a game plan,” Mac says.

“What?”

Mac closes the magazine and places it on the table to his right. “We need to figure out what we’re gonna do to make you more better when you get outta here.”

“You say that like I’m not leaving today.”

Mac eyes him. “You’re not, dude.”

“What do you mean?”

Panic swoops in and grabs hold of his chest tightly.

“You’re goin’ up to the fifth floor for in-patient treatment. Are they not telling you anything?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Frank got you a spot. We all think you should do it.”

Dennis runs a hand through his hair. Tries to control his breathing. “Well, I’m glad you guys are making all the decisions without consulting me.”

“You tried to kill yourself, Dennis. You need help, and we can’t keep living like this.”

“We?” Dennis scoffs. “We? Are you fucking kidding me? You have no idea what I’m going through.”

“I know. That’s why you need to do this. For yourself, not me or the gang. It could help.”

Dennis clenches his jaw. Hard. He swears steam pours from his ears. “You know what? Get the fuck out of here, Mac. I don’t want you here anymore.”

He sounds like a petulant toddler, but whatever. Fuck it. Embrace it. Might as well. Everyone is moving on and doing everything without him.

“Just because of the - ”

“Go! I’m not fucking kidding! Get the fuck out!”

“We’re just trying to help you!”

“Oh yeah? Then help by leaving.”

“Why are you always such an asshole?” Mac asks, no venom or anger lacing his words.

Dennis’ eyes go from pure rage to blankness as Mac puts on his coat.

He isn’t sure how much longer he can function like this.

Maybe it’ll be different once he spends some time in the loony bin. Maybe it’ll be different when he gets out. Maybe it’ll be different because Mac won’t be around. Mac won’t be his roommate. He can’t handle being around him. It’s toxic. It hurts. It drowns out everything and nothing and leaves Dennis breathless and aching. He doesn’t understand why he feels the way he does about Mac, but he does understand that Mac is the most fucking annoying person in the galaxy, that he harms Dennis more than he helps, that he gets in the way of who Dennis truly is.

Because, really, Mac’s ruining everything, and Dennis isn’t sure how much longer he can handle this.

“I’m gonna stay at Dee’s when I get outta here,” Dennis says neutrally, voice even and holding zero emotion.

Mac gestures wildly. It doesn’t help his case. “What? What the fuck are you talking about, man? What did I do to you that was so fucking bad?”

“What part of ‘get you’ do you not understand?”

“No! Not til you tell me what I did!”

“EVERYTHING! Okay, Mac! You’re ruining everything. I try so fucking hard to be perfect. I look great. I watch my figure. I’m smart. I own the largest share of the bar. I know my shit. I’ve got things together. And you? You’re fucking nothing, Mac, and you’re bringing me down! You’ve been bringing me down for fuck knows how long. I don’t know what the fuck happened to you while I was gone, but you’re so much more annoying than you’ve ever been. You stopped talking to me. You stopped texting me. You got boyfriends and fucked around. And when I got back, things weren’t the same, and it’s always so tense, and I don’t fucking like being touched all the time, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want you to touch me period. Can’t a guy get a little warning? That’s it. That’s what I need. I need to be in control, and you make me feel so fucking out of control I can’t stand it. I don’t know why you get off on weird shit like making me feel bad or weird or so small, but I can’t do it anymore, okay? I’m done, Mac. I’m done.”

“Den, there’s a lot to unpack there…”

As soon as he hears his old nickname, the one Mac hasn’t used since the whole ‘time’s up’ fiasco, the floodgates open. It’s ugly and horrible, and there’s nothing subtle about it. He wishes it were possible to drown himself in tears. His heart spills into his gut, poisoning his veins and muscles and neurons, and he just wants all of this to fucking stop. He’s tired of feeling absolutely nothing or way too much fucking much in the blink of an eye. He can’t he can’t he can’t he -

“Please g’way…” he cries. “Please…”

But Mac doesn’t.

Dennis keeps sobbing.

“I’m going to sit on your bed now, okay?”

He doesn’t respond.

Feels the bed dip from Mac’s added weight.

“Can I hug you?”

He doesn’t answer.

He can’t answer.

He doesn’t want to answer.

It’s too much. It’s all too much.

“I’m going to hug you now, Dennis.”

Mac wraps him up in strong, solid arms. Rocks him back and forth. Rubs his sides with enough pressure that Dennis doesn’t choke on unaltered fear. But this is fear. It’s real and raw. Dennis hides his face in Mac’s sweater, breathes in the scent of leather and earth and beer. Feels Mac’s heartbeat beneath his palm.

“We’ll get through this, okay? We’ll get through this. I’m not gonna leave you…” Mac whispers.

Dennis isn’t sure whether to believe him or not, to call him out on the bullshit or not, but Mac being here right now is sort of enough.


	3. Part III

He doesn’t remember a lot from the last few days.

It’s just that staying awake in this place for too long freaks him out. He gets that nagging, scratching pressure at the back of his skull, and it’s enough to send him into a panicked, drug-laced sleep. He figures there’s no actual point in being awake, especially since they’ve got him doped up and detoxing and deteriorating into the sheets like he’s made of nothing. So he sleeps because he can, because he wants to, because it’s the only decision he is allowed to make. It's the only decision he ever wants to make again.

He remembers puking, his head hanging over the side of the bed and spitting into a basin held by someone that’s not him, or Mac or Dee. He remembers trying to slice his wrists open again with a soda tab, his stomach swimming deep in the pit of his stomach and crying because everything fucking hurts. He remembers shivering and shaking and trembling so hard it kicks his brain into overdrive, sending his neurons up in feverish flames and lighting him on fire despite the chill hollowed in his bones. He remembers screaming. Shouting. Fighting. Biting his tongue on accident and bursting into tears. Someone that’s not him or Mac or Dee brushing his hair from his forehead. Talking. Whispering. Brain shattering. Heart clattering. Footsteps across the room and down the hall.

Dennis tugs the mound of hospital issued blankets over his shoulders and up to his nose. He curls in tightly on himself and wills his mind to slow down long enough for him to drift off again. He just wants to sleep. The world is fuzzy and chaotic and loud, but oblivion is blissful and dark, and he doesn’t have to worry about who he is. He doesn’t have to do anything when he’s asleep. He doesn’t have to pretend to care, to not care, to have feelings, to not have feelings, to be whoever everyone else wants him to be.

His arms are disconnected from his body. Useless pasta noodles stewing in boiling water but do nothing else. He’s had dreams of severing his arms, offing them with an axe or a butcher knife. Something messy. Something painful. The logistics are fucked up because, realistically, he can only cut off one arm, but maybe Mac can chop off the other. He isn’t sure Mac wants to do anything with him or be around him, let alone help him kill himself, but he doesn’t want to think about Mac. He doesn’t want to think about anything. He just wants to sleep.

For now, he’ll shove his emotions - or lack thereof - deep, deep down into his God Hole and keep an eye on them.

 

* * *

 

A lady named Sandra forces him to go to the 9:00 AM group therapy session.

Dennis laughs in her face and buries himself in blankets as if burrowing himself underground for the winter.

Sandra pokes and prods and coaxes, claims that he’s now well enough to attend, and Dennis flips her the bird. Childish? Yes. But effective? Also yes.

“You have five minutes, Mr. Reynolds,” Sandra says.

“Fuck you,” he murmurs to no one. His forearms sting. His head hurts. His mouth is fucking dry.

Sandra steps back into his room, and Dennis sits up for the first time in days other than to take a piss, which, of course, is always accompanied by someone else sitting outside the door to make sure he doesn’t hurt himself.

“Christ, fine,” he mumbles. “I’m coming.”

He swings his legs over the side of the bed. A rush of blood to his head makes him instantly nauseous, and he breathes deeply. He stares at his bandaged arms and contemplates ripping them open to avoid this. He wants to take a shower, to regain some sense of normalcy and also fix his hair before going out into public, but everything takes too much effort. He doesn’t have the energy to do anything other than go through the motions to get the fuck out of here.

Dennis rifles through the small dresser in the corner of the room. Someone put his shit away. Dennis pulls on a grey hoodie over his scrub top. It’s huge and unflattering on his slender figure, but it’s warm enough that he can almost trick himself into believing it’s his bed in his apartment. As many times as he’s done this, as many times as he’s tried, as many times as he’s been in this situation before, he never gets used to the thin mattresses and lack of warmth. Fucking savages can’t even afford memory foam toppers or a heated blanket for Christ’s sake.

He takes a deep breath. Wipes the sweat from his brow. Frowns at how disgusting he is, looks, feels. His stomach lurches as he leaves the room and heads down the narrow hallway. He shoves his hands in his pockets and stares at the floor as he walks. A large sitting area opens up behind brown double doors. Everyone is already in a stupid, cliche, stereotypical circle. Dennis doesn’t make eye contact with anyone as he sits in the most fucking uncomfortable chair in the universe.

“Good morning,” a voice begins.

There’s a shitty symphony of greetings, but Dennis refuses to utter a word, fiddling with his hospital bracelet to keep his head here and not somewhere else.

“It’s nice to see you, Dennis,” he hears.

Dennis blinks and looks up. The room sways, and the winter sunlight pours through the windows. It’s bright as shit. They should close those Goddamn curtains before he goes blind. Dennis doesn’t know what to say, how to exchange pleasantries when he feels so awful, doesn’t understand how to interact with people that aren’t the gang.

He glances next to him and sees a woman, pale and skinny like Dee. Like his sister.

“Now is usually the part where you talk,” the Dee-ish woman tells him.

Dennis clears his throat. “Um, yeah… Good morning…” It’s quiet and small and doesn’t even remotely sound like his voice.

First impressions are everything.

The group leader or whatever goes on to make others talk about their shitty problems.

Dennis drowns it all out.

He can’t quite leave like he wants to. Usually, if he’s stressed or bored or anxious, it doesn’t take much for his brain to escape. He launches into space and separates from his body for a little while; sometimes, it’s honestly comforting, and other times it’s absolutely fucking terrifying. He thinks it would offer him solace at the moment. So he tries. Tries to escape. But nothing works, and he’s sweating disgustingly in the middle of December, and it fucking feels like his insides are melting, and he wants to die so badly, so so so badly.

Dennis doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting in this hard ass plastic chair. He squirms and fidgets and bites his nails and runs his fingers through his hair. Greasy. Gross. He’s an animal. He needs to fucking shower. How dare he just come out into the open world like this? Does he have no standards? Jesus Christ. He’s done this before, tried to kill himself that is, but he’s never once neglected his daily routine; it’s what makes him feel human.

He has to be in control. Right now, he isn’t.

Breathe.

He has to breathe.

Dennis’ heart races as another person starts babbling. He can’t hear what he or she is saying.

“How about you, Dennis?” cuts through, mostly because of the use of his name. When he was younger, he didn’t make eye contact or speak to people. His mom and Frank would use his name over and over again, berating him and belittling him and forcing him into interacting. He never got it. He never understood why he had to look people in the eye while talking to them. Isn’t it weird? Isn’t it awkward? Because it’s weird and awkward for him, even though he’s over 40.

Every eye in the room is on him.

Sweat pools around the collar of the hospital issued hoodie.

“Uh, I’m sorry…” Dennis manages to get out. “What’re we talking about?”

His vision is so blurry. He can’t see. He can’t feel anything other than unruly fear tripping through his wires. What the fuck is in these meds?

“Your day. How is your day going?”

Dennis shrugs, but he doesn’t even know how to answer because the answer is fucking obvious.

Fucking asshole asking him stupid fucking questions. What a barbaric, uneducated moron.

“Why don’t you tell us a little bit about yourself?”

Dennis’ hands tremble hard. He squeezes them together to lessen the noticeability.

It doesn’t work.

Dennis feels himself losing grip with reality or consciousness; he can’t quite tell which yet. When things got bad, Mac used to hold him. Mac placed Dennis’ head on his chest, and Dennis listened to his heartbeat while Mac counted them out loud. When things got bad, Mac reassured him and offered to make him hot chocolate in the middle of summer and rubbed his back for the rest of the day. When things got bad, Mac did whatever he could.

“Anything for you, Den,” Mac would whisper later when Dennis had nearly whimpered himself into an exhausted sleep. “Anything.”

Dennis jumps up from his seat and dashes down the hall.

 

* * *

 

 

He bites the skin around his thumb mindlessly. Stares at the mahogany desk in front of him. Watches his knees bob up and down up and down up and down.

“How’re you holding up, Dennis?” Dr. Weston asks.

Dr. Weston is alright. He’s Dennis’ counselor or mental health professional or whatever the shit you want to call him (his words, not Dennis’). He’s an old, greying man with wire rimmed glasses and a different tie every time Dennis sees him. He smells like hard candy and doesn’t care if Dennis smokes in his office, which is a major bonus because smoking is now the only thing he can do to relieve the constant pressure building in his skull.

“I’m okay,” he says quietly. He doesn’t feel like talking.

“Sandra said you had another nightmare last night? What was it about?”

Dennis would scoff, but that would require energy and caring. “Sandra doesn’t know shit.”

“It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it,” Dr. Weston says. “But we have to talk about something. You can’t bottle everything up.”

His eyebrows furrow. “I’m not bottling anything up.”

“Horseshit,” Dr. Weston says. “You’re a terrible actor, Dennis.”

“I’m a terrible actor!” Dennis screeches, sitting up straight in his chair. It’s the most he’s felt since he got here. “I’m a terrible actor? How dare you. The audacity of -”

Dr. Weston holds his hands up in surrender. “I think you’re missing the point of my comment.”

“Can I go now?” Dennis asks. He’s done being fucked with.

“Sorry,” Dr. Weston says, and Dennis rolls his eyes. “We still have 45 minutes left. Cigarette?”

Dennis takes one from the carton, leaning forward so Dr. Weston can light it. The nicotine buzzes around in his brain, muddling his drowning, irritating thoughts. It releases some tension, and Dennis sinks into his surprisingly comfortable chair. He inhales and exhales and holds the cigarette in between his lips as he curls in on himself, pulling his knees to his chest.

“Why do you always sit like that in here?”

Dennis takes another drag from the cigarette. “Are you seriously gonna analyze how I sit?”

“Do you sleep like that too? Huddled up in a ball?”

“Dude, quit asking me about this shit. You’re creeping me out.”

“Did you sleep like that with Mac?” Dr. Weston asks.

Mac’s name slices through him. He clenches his jaw. “Don’t talk about Mac.”

“I’m just observing -”

“Yeah,” Dennis cuts him off. “Well don’t. Quit observing. Quit pointing out my flaws. Quit asking me all these stupid fucking questions.”

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m only trying to -”

“Shut the fuck up!” Dennis screams, stubbing the cigarette out on his scrub pants and getting to his feet. He doesn’t give a shit that it burns. He drops the butt on the ground, stomping on it and smearing ash on this douchebag’s fancy ass carpet.

Dr. Weston stands up too. Dennis takes a few steps back. “What’re you thinking about? Why are are you upset?”

“Please just leave me alone,” Dennis mumbles. “I don’t… I’m just so fucking tired.”

“Tired of what?”

“This. Everything. Myself.”

“Why’re you tired of yourself, Dennis?”

Dennis crumples on Dr. Weston’s leather couch, woozy from exhaustion and that new fucking meal plan he’s on. He curls in on himself again, hiding his face in his knees. “Can’t you see why, dude? I’m a fucking mess. My mom’s dead. My dad… Frank, I mean, whored me out and has never actually cared about me. My sister thinks I’m a psychopath,” he lets out, breathing erratically. “And Mac… Mac fucking hates me.”

Dr. Weston goes on a licensed spiel about family dynamics and BPD.

Dennis doesn’t hear a Goddamn word he says.

Instead, he thinks about Mac, and it’s enough to get him through the rest of his session with exploding.

 

* * *

 

Someone, who cares who, removes his stitches, and he stares at what’s left.

What’s left are two ugly, long, marred pink scars. More to add to his collection. He’s almost proud because they’re some of the deepest and ugliest etched on his broken skin. He wants to do it again, to try it again, but he can’t. He resigns himself to letting Sandra inspect his self-inflicted wounds after his supervised shower, where he spent 10 minutes listening to Sandra fucking hum her little heart out. She’s horrendously off key, but it’s almost nice in it’s own weird way.

“They look so much better,” Sandra says as she rubs scar reducer over his skin. “And you finished your tray. Good job.”

Dennis frowns and wants to say that he’s not a fucking toddler, but he’s so tired of arguing. He shrugs instead. The meal plan sucks. He has to eat three meals a day, all high in fiber and proteins and nutrients, along with two snacks. He tried like a motherfucker to hide the food so he wouldn’t have to eat, but Sandra does not fuck around. So Dennis now eats whatever he’s given, even if it has no taste, even if it hurts his stomach, even if it fills a small piece inside of him.

“Group is in an hour.”

Dennis nods, rolling the sleeves of the hoodie down. He lies back against the too flat pillow, folding his hands behind his head.

He tries not to scowl or scream or die and remembers his Lamaze breathing exercises when Sandra looks checks in on him every 20 minutes.

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t have the strength to drag himself to Dr. Weston’s office.

Sandra tries to make him go, but he plugs his ears and stares at the wall. Everything is too loud. Everything is too much. He wants to sleep, but he can’t because there’s no privacy, and his head fucking hurts, and he just wants to go home. He hides his head under the covers like a little kid. He flinches hard and almost snaps when Sandra, after verbally affirming it, rubs his back for a few minutes. No one besides Mac has ever done this. But it’s nice. It almost helps.

He doesn’t go to Dr. Weston’s office, but Dr. Weston sure fucking comes to Dennis’ room.

Dennis sniffles and wipes his face with oversized hoodie sleeves.

“Cigarette?” Dr. Weston offers.

Dennis shakes his head. He’s done this before, been here before, but no one’s ever actually came to do a session with him like this. If he missed it, then he missed it, and his privileges were provoked. But Sandra and Dr. Weston aren’t like that. They’re trying to help him; Dennis just wishes he didn’t recognize that for himself. It’s much harder when other people care.

“You feel up for this?”

“Not really…” Dennis murmurs honestly.

“Anything in particular happen?”

“Just tired…” Dennis whispers. “And… sad, I guess.”

“Sad?”

“Depressed. Whatever. I… I really don’t feel right. Can we do this later?”

Dr. Weston nods. “Of course. I mostly came down here because you’ve been granted a visitor’s pass. Any thoughts on who you might invite?”

“I don’t have to see anybody if I don’t want to, right?”

“That’s right, but don’t you want to see Mac? Or maybe your sister?”

“No.”

He doesn’t want them to see him like this. He’s been here for two weeks now; it’s almost Christmas for fuck’s sake, and he’s kinda let himself go. He’s put on some weight and is on his way to filling out his once way too big clothes. He doesn’t want to hear Dee’s fat jokes or criticisms. His hair is longer than usual, and he’s got this beard thing going on at the moment, even though he usually detests facial hair. He can shave if he’s supervised, but he just doesn’t want to. All he’s been wearing for weeks are sweats, and he pads around the sterile hallways in socks. Hasn’t worn shoes, laceless of course, since he got here.

Okay, he really let himself go.

He tells Dr. Weston this with a lot less details.

“What about Mac? Why don’t you want to see him?”

“I… I don’t think he wants to see me…” Dennis says quietly. “I-I mean, I hit him and screamed at him. I pushed him away. I told him I wanted to die. I’ve been taking advantage of him for years. I drink too much and get too angry and take it out on him. I’ve… I’ve really fucked things up with him, doc. I don’t understand how he could ever want to see me again, and I get that. I’ve been horrible to him since we were kids. He doesn’t want to see me. He doesn’t want me.”

He may or may not be close to tears.

“Dennis, Mac calls to check on you everyday,” Dr. Weston says.

His eyes almost brighten. “Everyday?”

Dr. Weston nods. Dennis keeps laying in bed with the covers nestled in a fortress of solitude around him, but Dr. Weston certainly has his undivided attention now.

“Of course, we can’t tell him anything about your status, but he still calls, sometimes two or three times a day. He misses you, Dennis.”

Dennis scoffs. “Maybe,” he reasons. “But… But I dunno how to feel about him anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“He just… It’s different now that he’s out, y’know? And it’s even more different since I left. I came back to a totally new Mac. It’s weird. It hurts sometimes.”

“Because you left him?”

“Because he moved on without me,” Dennis says.

“From what you’ve told me about your and Mac’s previous relationship, maybe you got so used to pushing him away that you just kept pushing, and now you’re struggling to pick up the pieces. You’re trying to figure out where you stand with your friends, and Mac is one of them.”

Dennis smushes his cheek harder against the pillow. “I don’t want him to just be my friend.”

“I know, Dennis. Maybe you should tell him that.”

 

* * *

 

Dr. Weston convinces Dennis to let Mac visit him.

He almost has Dee come instead, but he just kind of misses Mac and wants to see him.

Dennis takes his supervised shower with Sandra right outside the door. Today, she’s humming Mr. Brightside. He tries to scrub the hospital off of him, but there’s really nothing he can do to wash that away. Sandra offers to grab the electric razor, but he denies it, letting his beard just be a beard. He puts on his nicest, cleanest green scrub bottoms and top, encases his upper body in the hoodie, and slides his feet into laceless tennis shoes.

Control. He’s in control. He knows he is. He can feel it in his bones.

“Mac’s waiting for you,” Sandra says.

Dennis brain rattles, and he follows Sandra down the hall to the visitor’s room. A few others are here with friends and family, and Dennis nods politely at them as he walks by.

Mac is sitting at the far left table, drumming his fingers on polished wood.

Dennis gulps. Swallows thickly. Runs his fingers through his hair. Mac stands the moment he sees him.

“Hey, dude,” he says, and Dennis forgot just how much he loves Mac’s voice. “Can I give you a hug?”

“Yeah.”

Mac engulfs him in a big, comforting hug, wrapping around him fully. Dennis melts into the firm and familiar embrace.

“You look amazing, Dennis,” he whispers in his ear before pulling away. He notes Mac’s touch doesn’t linger any longer than it’s ‘supposed’ to. “You doing okay?”

Dennis nods. He wants to tell Mac he’s doing so much better now that he’s here, but Dennis has fucked up in so many irrevocable ways. Mac is truly a saint for putting up with Dennis’ bullshit. For calming him down when the world swallowed him whole. For helping eat and drink and sleep when it didn’t come naturally. For staying bright even in Dennis’ darkest, bleakest moments. For always being there. For being the other half of him.

He doesn’t unearth any of those things. “Are we gonna be alright?” is what he asks instead.

And fucking fuck. He totally doesn’t mean to ask it, not for real right now anyway, but it slips out before he has the chance to stop it.

Control. He’s in control.

“We’re fine, bro.”

Dennis shakes his head. “No. I mean… I just… I want to fix things between us. I want us to go back to the way we were before.”

“What were we before?” Mac questions.

He shrugs. “I dunno. Friends at least. Look, I’ve been such an asshole to you since we were in high school. I’m even worse since I came back from North Dakota. We used to laugh and have fun together, you know? I know that’s a lot for me to want. I know I’ve ruined things. I know I’ll ruin things a lot more in the future. I miss you, Mac, and I’m sorry. For everything.”

There are tears in Mac’s eyes, and, honestly, Dennis has no idea what the hell he’s done in his shitty life to deserve someone like Mac.

“We used to have movie nights. We could start that up again,” Mac suggests.

Dennis swallows painfully. He wants more. So so so much more than that. But he’ll take what he can get.

Mac lists off all the things they used to do, back before Dennis left to North Dakota to become a shitty father. Back before Dennis got diagnosed and then subsequently quit his meds cold turkey. But Mac doesn’t talk about 2009. Doesn’t talk about kissing or holding hands or, fuck, cuddling on the couch. Doesn’t talk about boning in every room in their apartment, at Paddy’s, in hotel suites, at a resort in the Poconos that they snuck away to one weekend in late March.

Dennis can’t push it. He isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to push it again. Not after all the shit he’s put Mac through. At this rate, he’s lucky Mac’s here. Mac is his friend, and Dennis is trying to keep it simple, but his brain is screaming for more. Screaming for Mac. Screaming for Mac’s lips brushing against his. For Mac’s fingers in his hair. Screaming purely, so vividly, for Mac.

He can’t. He can’t do that. He can’t tell him. He can’t say anything.

“I miss you, Den,” Mac says softly, gently, and it shakes Dennis away from his thoughts. “This is way more worse than when you left for North Dakota.”

“I’m sorry,” Dennis whispers. “I fucked up.”

“I don’t mean it like that, dude. I mean, yeah, you fucked up, but you’re still here, remember? You’re here, and you’re trying, and you look so much better. I just mean that I really seriously miss you. Not having you around sucks ass. Knowing the reason why hurts more.”

Dennis gulps. Nods. Starts fiddling with his hospital bracelet.

“I want to try,” Dennis tells him. “I want to try to get my head right. I want to try to make it last. I want to try not to do stupid shit like this anymore.”

“That’s good. I’m glad you feel that way. It’s progress.”

“I won’t be perfect,” he whispers. “I’ll never be perfect.”

Mac reaches his hand out across the polished wooden table, offering it to Dennis. Dennis takes it with zero hesitation. Mac’s touch is comforting, soft and sweet like a lullaby. “I don’t want you to be perfect, Den. I want you to be happy.”

“I’m happy when I’m with you,” Dennis says so quietly he barely hears himself.

Mac rubs his thumb over Dennis’ ghostly white knuckles, and Dennis no longer feels dead.

Instead, he feels shatteringly, overwhelmingly alive as he soaks in Mac’s touch. Mac’s presence. Mac’s love.


End file.
